Silly bunny burger boss,
hops through the flowers and the frost.
Sniffs a carrot,
maybe two,
Then makes up a gift for you!
A little song,
That goes like this,
"I am the bunny burger boss,
now, from me,
here is a kiss!
I do not always sing a song,
but now, I ask, you sing along!
I am the bunny burger boss
my heart is large and full!
My tail is small,
a ball of fluff!
On days like this, so cool,
I hop hop hop
up to your feet,
and sing and dance for you!"
Now and then
this burger boss
though gay and bright, it's true,
get's lonely and sits off on a stump
thinking of what to do.
On days like this
When bunny's sad
he hears a hum
from forest near
and turns and sees
a lark is perched
on a branch out in the clear
he hears the tune
a bunny song, it's true
about a bunny burger boss
who has a song for you!
So when you are so sad and low
and life's got you feeling blue,
Think of bunny burger boss
and the song he shares with you!

I woke up to screams from a stolen razor.   
Where is it?  
It was a loud scream.          
The end comes swiftly,
anyway,
and,
if there are no razors around,
it comes even faster.                        
 
At the top of the mountain,
the anger flows to the valley,
and there is no scream.                                  
In the valley, we wait.                
There is a pull from a cigarette.                               
Small talk that is not small talk.                                        
A man wheezes   
A woman wonders where she'll go tomorrow                                          
it comes out as a laugh
                  and lightly in the background plays a song that can only be called the disease of the 80's.                                       
 
We didn't need another.                                     

But, thank you.

For I will consider a town called Riverside.
For its only river, the dry Santa Ana, it's shore peppered with the homeless, garbage, an old shoe, a cart stolen from the grocery.
For its downtown with dried gum spots all along the sidewalk, its dive bars with regulars pouring in at 3pm and pouring cheap beer into their gullets until morning.
For its overpriced theatre, a gentrified landmark, driving the sun-hot strays to the park.
For the park, and a lake, dotted with boats in the summer, driven by tired feet, hands hiding beer in gas station soda cups.
For the mountain, with the old ladies, counting every step, looking up to the cross and over the edge onto a thick brown smog.
For the steepled churches on every corner, waking us every Sunday to pray to a hotly scarce God.
For I will consider a town called Riverside.

When I watch you meditate, you are so fully taken to the heart of the earth. You are a true little Buddha. With your golden hair and a twinkle in your bright but distant blue eye, you speak of the astral plane, the whole universe in the center of the earth, your twin flame. You drink a Coca Cola, but it takes you two days because you cherish every sip. You have become my warm home. My sweet soul friend. We smoke sage together and the light from the smoldering pipe glows greedily as it burns away. We drift. You work at a thrift shop. Carrying crystals in your pockets, you greet the customers with joy, but treat everyone fairly. It is no one's place to treat you like an inferior. Sister, don't ever cry. I will sing to you a sweet song. Deborah, seashell eyes. In the morning you make your coffee with just enough for one cup. That is your treat. Other treats: your mermaid oracle cards, a grape cigar, chakra incense, a cinnamon candy. You will never grow old. My sweet sweet sister, you are a cactus flower. At night, you look up at the dark purple clouds and see angels you've seen a thousand times before. Friend, you are infinite. A wild rose. A shell at sea. A pearl.

I take one to keep the blues away;
One so I don't peel my skin like a banana;
One so I can sleep without being chased by death;
One so I don't jump out of the car on the highway;
One so I don't run down the street naked talking about ethical consumption under capitalism;
One so I don't cry about the sad looking potato chip;
One to **** the pain in my heart;
One so I can focus on my school work;
One so I don't tell my teacher he looks like a bridge troll;
And one so I don't fall in love with you.

here we are again
walls, white
cotton sheets
teal socks with the tread

we share small talk
i ask about home
things are the same there

i tell you about my bedmate
she thinks she's satan
it's all up from here

when you leave
i sit down to dinner
a jail meal

it drips from the mute's lips
who sits staring
at the table diagonal from me

she is afraid of dogs
i, a dog
bite a dry piece of bread
and cough

in this lowland we halt and look up to the sun
but see only a black sky

and when you ask
are you getting better
the response
yes

is for you

Just a light that doesn't fade
Just a warmth on winter days
Just a drink that quenches thirst
Just a dance now on the surf
Just a boy
Just a girl
Just a dress and hair with curls
Just a swim in a deep blue wake
Just a lust for heaven's sake!
Just a taste of cherry cola
Just a touch on sunkissed shoulder
Just a kiss, but where it leads
Just a longing
Just a need
Just me grasping your warm hand
Just forever, in the sand

Sunday morning,
and the sun is peaking through the blinds
after a long sleepless night.

The monster that hung over my head all night
is sticking around for the light, it seems,
and it is scaring my Pothos'.

As they wilt,
I am changing the song that's playing,
It's too haunting, too obvious.

An old friend, this specter has become.
I laugh as he spills my coffee.

Again, like before
a lost walk in a manic rain
and the cold back seat;
Black, purple,
and some, older,
green and pink
my legs and arms, bruised.

It took a drunken sunless summer,
only one week of copper leaves for the fall
and this desert,
a month of a metal door handle turning, turning
Until, with a gasp, the dead black of December.

Here in the new year, a fat feast for death to add to my years,
a night dive into stone.

As he puffed his American Spirit, a handsome Asian business man said good morning. To the low hum of cars streaming by, I sang back, "Have a nice day!" We passed, two birds on their way to summer. I hope we don't get the emphysema.

summer is over

i watched it turn

while the quiet grace in my eyes went hard

why do i always
go here

when there
is so soft and curved
a pillow to lay the palm of a hand

the wet fog rolling in on a cool morning
pools behind my eyes
the cement beneath my feet
tenses for fall

and I wait

the boarded up windows of the hospital
they were making renovations
et moi, et moi, et moi
wanting to see the sky
the night before
a police officer with kind eyes
asking if everything was alright
in the back of an ambulance
having just swallowed the charcoal
et moi, et moi, et moi
nodding a yes
wanting to see the sky
it would be a year till I saw it
sitting in the passenger seat of your car,
Jacques Dutronc playing
et moi, et moi, et moi
wildly singing
only by chance
when the song changed
looking up to see
a yellow sun setting

Not a woman,
on a dust dry morning
death put it's flag in me
bones crossed
a line, thin
you tread
as I sat up
in a ghost white sheet.
Not a woman,
moon-mad and haggard
full to the top with drugs
a lizard stuck in it's half-sloughed skin.
Not a woman,
on a dust dry morning.

I perch here
idle hands,
administer the dregs
of my coffee, to
a flagging, dull head
agonizing over
every flimsy word
I might utter
to make my dull life
bright

grasping at a flatlining pulse
a woody smile
     from the wreckage of my past.

Look!
          Look at this earnest celebration of chaos
                                                 that drives away oblivion.

Petit Oiseau, you told a joke,
You laughed and laughed
And the branch it broke
You fell from the nest
And bumped your head
And a funny frog thought you were dead!
He croaked a low mourning dirge all night,
until you woke
the next morn' at 3,
And Mama Oiseau
put you back in the tree!
Next time you laugh,
make sure you're steady
and that the branch you're on is ready!
You'll live to live to laugh another day
Petit Oiseau don't fall today!

I walked into a sandwich shop with a woman who believed in meditation and growling at the dirt in the desert. We saw a well dressed black man and we were 5,280 miles away from him, but he had a nice suit, so I said so.

so I give you this gift
disrobed doll parts
with baggage
and you love it
it is your first broken toy
and you fix it up
breathe life into it's smile
until it's eyes no longer gleam
and you throw it to the dogs
on the patio in the night
and they love it
it's their first broken toy

The sun sizzled on a hot pavement
the flies buzzed and landed on us
we swatted them away
we were the dead
we walked out into the day laughing,
like children
and went into the night wanting,
like men
I am haunted by the summer
my alligator skin goes out crawling
and my milk white eyes
pour over your devil red body
and I am suddenly a wasteland
from my shoulders to my soft core

Where is the feather light
pile of leaves to fall
into?
        Instead, I find a brisk descent into
        a pitch dark night of the heart.
Here, there are only
Monday's and the 9-5, forever,
                                                     with the
                                         pitter patter
                                                  of someone else's fun
                                                                ­                 in the other room.
I tear at the red dirt, screaming,
to find new growth.
    but find only
                           bones.
I rattle my cage, and spit at the lock
singing a hymn
for an autumn
                          in black.

I've never liked my name,
so I tell you to call me Josie.

The O, an arc over the roses of my childhood
the garden in the front yard
where I fell asleep listening to Ravi Shankars' sitar.
Slipping, dead to the world, among the night blooming jasmine.

A beautiful thing.

Tonight,
future uncertain,
the stone weight of your head, adrift in dream on my hip,
feels a comfort to my blues.

A beautiful thing.

Napoleon for his Josephine,
can feel
the breath that you leave heavy on my thigh.

A beautiful thing.

sitting in a coffee shop
a man is grinning while
he stares at his laptop
the light from the screen
reflects off his glasses
and his eyes are great
white orbs and he
smiles and smiles and
all I can think is
that I will never
hear you sing again

I needed the sound of the music
and the breeze that hit the trees I touched
and the grass
and the dancing
and the soul I don't believe in
to open up
and let tomorrow in
even when today is a century
even when yesterday
creaks open and grabs me
holds me locked tight

every song on the radio
some chance
some synchronicity
some ecstasy

I open my eyes underwater
I am safe and supported
I give a deep sigh of relief
for the thousand loves I have lost in my dreams
for the death that sees me in my reflection at the bottom of a glass

Weary, wanting women
I have been one
Soft
I have been that, too.

And when a violet sunset comes through the trees tonight,
I am still so very soft.

Gravitating toward home
with its star stained skyline
a latch on every door
torn over coffee
the smell of peppermint
a tear here where tears have been
the hope of a stranger
helping to embolden
an empty cup
pouring.

Happy Valentine's Day
Everything hurts
the nightstand's a pallbearer
the dresser's a curse
the apples are browning
the skies have gone black
and monsters are creeping
at your very back!

the wind whispers boo
and the sun doesn't shine
the birds are all dead
and the hamsters all cry

Oh Dear Valentine!

Where will we go?
Where to be being,
When the moon's made of snow?

below
below
below

in the meantime,
soft air pooling around me

the ghost of you
sleeping soundly on the porch

only waking to tell me
that we were meant to be an oak
how we were meant to peel
ourselves down to our cores
holding the part left
with closed hands

as the moon rises over the end of summer
the wind lulls you
and I am wanting

if you sit upright
type well
stare at a screen
wear the right clothes
they'll call you a fashion plate
the old men
you'll get a good job
hell, maybe they will marry you

not me
I slouch
stare out the window
make up stories about the bluebird

At my review they tell me I can do much better

why does that matter when my heart is breaking into a million pieces?

there is the bluebird again

when will he leave me to my work?

Why doesn't it come through the window, like it did?
The moon?
With it's white night thoughts?
Pouring in
Now, pouring out
Why don't you cry to me?
Now, I see the tears welling,
but, a steely-eyed anger holds them back.

I can tell you a thousand things.
Your hair, a black sky I look out on tonight
And where is it?
The moon?

I can tell you a thousand things.
You are my beautiful boy.
You are my beautiful boy.

Where is it?
The moon?

It's Thursday
If it were Wednesday
It would be the same
again, you are not here
So,
     I think to call someone else
and have regrettable ***
and forget you for a night
but I don't
I'm tired of it
I'll be alone
So,
I think I'll sit by myself
drink
    and talk to the gods
they don't exist
but they are nearer than you

Here is a night where I've hardly just awoken.
Here is a wet dog on a patio with rain.
Here is a strawberry cigar.
Here is coffee with light cream.
Here are pants, slightly too big.
Here is the murmur of my reflections, coloring the skyline black.
Here is a bottle of gin.
Here is a swing set with no one swinging.
Here is my hair growing longer, with no one there to notice.
Here is my father's one single tear, dropping and being wiped away.
Here is a moth's wing, torn and dusty, swept into the trash.
Here is my face turning tomato red, and a stutter.
Here is an endless walk, a car ride, a sleepless night.
Here is a pill, a hospital stay, a night in white.

Here are the things I leave in the dark
So I can hear you when you say,
"What's on your mind?"

Lenore, not lost
but only sleeping
sainted, yes
and night comes reaping
radiant with demon's dreaming
tapping, tapping, like before.

Sure, the wind
has caught you from me
dances with you
rare Lenore.

Send this shadow
with it's rapping
send it
flying, from my door.

a dog barks to start a fight with bubba
and he gets
mean like an ant who's
sugars' been stolen and I tell him
             that's an ugly dog
when ugly people populate the planet, I get mad,
but I don't bite their heads off.
                                        He got really calm after that
and I waved at a gardener
as if to say,
                   'It's okay,
                                   it won't happen again.'

Thinking of the time they did coke in my apartment,
and they suddenly realized
I was beautiful

I would have been before, too,
but you were always worried about your tutor
and the white sludge
dripping down the back of your throat
tap tap tapping
on your brain, that couldn't take it anymore, but did.

Now, you live with a woman who works with children
they hear the tap tap tapping
on their brain
and they would have been beautiful, anyway.

You are somewhere with no answers to questions,

no weeping
no laughter

and the tap tap tapping on your brain.

You are old, and you cannot see the sky.

the streetlight glows
on a black spider in the bush
a cigar, slowly burning
stone-faced, a blue angel appears
hand extended, palm up
a car alarm goes off
and the moon goes slanted
a naked pain works it's fingers into my chest-plate

the world carries on outside my apartment
fighting
drinking
laughing
sleeping
a girl finds a flower
a man drives to work
a woman eats some green beans
a soldier wonders why he signed up
for this
a fat law maker *******
and me
I sit
and think
sometimes, cry
don't know what else to do
summer breathes hot air down my neck
and somewhere a baby is born
it is cold there
and her father is dead

In the wasteland of my mind
an idea like a tumbleweed
interrupts the landscape.

space folds around its pointed form

time scatters like mice before its untethered gait

as it makes its way
to the bright center of the barren mound it was born to,
leaving no stretch of its path unchanged,
intruding upon the atmosphere's stubborn scarcity
                  with the fullness of a growl
darting from the mouth of a shapeless traveler
forced upon the world through birth.

Howling with the bittersweet memory of the womb, calling out for its home in the stars.

Reaching the mound
it lights up with the flame of intention
and seizing its grasp on action,
finds its way to the mouth

and in telling you how I love you

       the silence swallows it whole

                  when you don't say a thing.

and when your babies were born
you named them for the stars
but the backyard was all they ever saw
when your mother got the call
the world was obsessed
but when we change the channel
you'll still feel him inside
you'll still feel him

There are nights,
blue sky coming through the window
the last orange of the sun
no longer aglow
when I seek myself.

She is a daughter.
She is a son.
She is the weird and wary night coming in
                                                              ­        slowly.

softly
like an idly turning spinnerette
she awakes.

There is a morning,
fog traipsing through the mountain
around the trees
and to my door
when I see myself.

With some help from my cigars, little dancers dressed in swirling black smoke, I'll keep the words from leaving my mouth. I'll say something about my day instead. It's okay, I'll just pretend. With the shadow from the sun visor covering my eyes as they well, I'll tell you about my lunch plans. Small talk, right? I can be good at this, with you. My ears, little zombies searching for a pulse, I'll ask you how your day went. I'll pounce on a laugh, I'll bite at a smile. This is all I have. It's okay, I'll just pretend.

Hardly a day passes by
that I don't see
your mad purple eyes.
Northern girl,
you wandered into me.

I saw your stars,
angry with silver
fall into the earth's atmosphere
with fire,
and it felt like a kiss.

You are not here now,
and the years pass slow
a long dark highway.

Without you,
sparks never reach full flame
I hear echoes of our orange laughter
lost in a hallway with doors that lead to static grey.

you were young once
bright eyed
you put the raspberries on each finger and then ate them off
one by one
then, older
you took a bus home from school
kept to yourself
playing 80’s and 90’s hits you would later work out with
as “Shout” Turned to “Oblivion”
you would fall to the floor
and pant
get up
walk to the kitchen
look for something, anything
One
Small
Raspberry

It's Friday night,
a still blue dark eyed sky
a band plays

It's years removed from the time I wrote about
the bells and how they swing
in the tower to my left
I still hear them
how they cling cling BANG
and I am with you
and I am alone
                          tomorrow is coming
and in two years I'll be here with the bells

cling cling BOOM

and there will be a woman or a man
sipping on coffee
or speaking
                    softly,    and the bells
                                                        
cl­­ing cling BANG

Happy Valentine's
the drapes have caught fire
the lovers have died
your friends are all liars

the moths eat your clothes
the spiders spin webs
the children put ropes
round your very neck

your heart's broken up
into small jagged pieces
two angry pit bulls
are off of their leashes!

oh, sweet valentine,
how will we fare?
where will we go?
when God isn't there?

nowhere
nowhere
nowhere

shirelles
monday night
alone in a big house
light the candles
another one of my rituals
born one hour,
dead the next
to make room
for other
prayers
postures
pen tips
but the way candles
flicker in the sweet
soul
is not another ritual
warm life
to the tune of golden
notes
swimming through
once bleak
     once empty
once impure
       air
and suddenly, I am baptized
more than I ever was
in that sterile, dead
chlorine
    more than spent hymns
in drafty cathedrals
       so, the sound lives.


my bed would tilt
           at twelve years old
I'd wake
               startled of the
                       psychic death
spread like bodies after
            a paid for war
I'd scream like the cats
              fighting by the window
at my aunts house
               I would huddle with
my childhood
                     hiding from the puberty
that stalked me
like a jungle cat
               the mind reeled with
my spent pulse and
                 at night
                        under shamed
                   covers
                                 bitten fingertips
the white light
           on the street
                              looking on

at night
the sound shifts
and in the low hum of voices
I hear a silence hiding
a flower growing in concrete
laughter and sadness live
in this place
beacons, shedding light
on darkness
and how the dark
        will break your bones
        and turn your stomach
without the silence

They are blue, my eyes.

They are blue
like my father's
like my grandfather's before him
They are blue.

They are blue
like my mood every January
like an unused pool in Fall
They are blue.

They are blue
like a brand new bicycle
like a tear in the shower
They are blue.

They are blue
like a berry
like the last view I had of your body
They are blue.

They are blue, my eyes.

I stepped into your apartment
I saw you reading
  sipping coffee
I saw you go to the fridge
and muse at its emptiness
I slept with you at night
we dreamed together
        you didn't see me
but I was there
       when I went to leave in the morning
you looked up
         quizzically

I am the weird wan wandering thought taker,
whispering in your inner ear
I am the dark daunting dancer
who snatches your lost dream in the morning.

Here it is, in my palm,
Aha!

I did the company mail again today
it was all the same as yesterday
everybody doesn't want to die again
they just want to waste more time again
why do you live
to open more mail?
to send more out?
your dollars are never enough
but you keep trying to make them
why do you try at love
when it makes your tear ducts sore?

I did the company mail again
I guess I didn't use the right stamps
'cause I'm still so ******* sick
and it was all the same as yesterday
everybody doesn't want to die again
and everybody is still dead

Wearing black without a reason,
I sit in a well-lit room at one in the morning.

A dark window facing me
with no moon peeking out from it's depths.

Two nights ago,
the rain drooled from a sleepy sky
and I was a sorrow on fire.

Now I am only fire.

The dogs escaped the yard,
biting a hole in the fence.

Here I am,
a dog with dull teeth.

I cling to a mad comfort.

Wearing black without a reason.

At night in the dark
where no one sees
a place for two
just you and me
a spider there
and there a bat
a creeper
a crawler
and here a gnat!

Well now you've seen a ghoulish thing!
Here in the mirror, "Is it I?", you think.

And here you stand aghast, agape!
A vampire king?
And I?
His mate?